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Description
Disgusting, marred, dirty, burnt, calloused, cold, broken, scarred.

I can't stand to look in the mirror; so many words I repeat when I see myself. How many masters is it I've had now? These last few haven't been too bad, but only because of this body. I might have grown plentifully well as a woman, but this bruised skin stops them in their tracks. I hate myself, I hate this body most of all, this body that has never really been my own, even now. Always I cover myself now to hide every painful reminder; I was too young to understand at the time but now I'm perfectly aware.

Arms wrap about me, enclosing my waist, a hand coming up to touch my bare left cheek.
"Didn't I tell you not to hide?"
"Please don't," I almost whimper, "At least not in front of the mirror."
"Why can't you see what I see? Why do you continue to hide?"
"Because I finally have a master who taught me what it is to have pride."

My current master is one of the commanders in the law enforcement sector. I work, indirectly, under him as a debt collector for the harbour guard. It's reasonable work, and there's a good pay, so I'm told, as a freed slave I'm just glad of any money coming my way. What I do know though is that the pay is good enough to pay rent on a small flat, it may be slightly shabby but it means I no longer have to live in my Master's house. The man currently behind me is a different matter; I met him because of my work, but not for any good reason.

Mafia of the Underworld, the illegal law enforcers. I got caught by his gang during one of my collections, bagged and gagged so to speak, that's how I met Wolfgang Zolf Caine.

His hand slips to the right side of my face, touching the vanity mask that he mocked when he first met me, the mask which covers the burn I had gained some years ago.
"You shouldn't hide."
"Please don't," I definitely whimper this time, my hands going up to try and stop his, but with just one he's already stopped me. With his spare hand he's untying my neck ribbon, carefully keeping hold of my wrists as he then somehow binds them. Already his hands have started on the buttons of my shirt. I hang my head, a blush spreading across my visible cheek, his hand beginning to work on my trousers. His fingers now move back up, brushing my shirt back onto my shoulders before they work on the bandages that bind my breasts; they're not there to support but to hide the further extent of my scars.

When Caine saw past the vanity mask and discovered the truth about me he promised me one thing; that despite how physically scarred I am, he told me that he would never emotionally scar me.. Fingers trace up my neck, crossing the old slave mark of Spade XIII, coming to rest on my jaw.
"Look," he pushes up my chin, forcing me to look in the mirror as my head comes to rest against his chest. So many scars rake my body, especially on my hips where previous masters had held me; my breasts don't fare much better. The one glimmer I can keep hold of is that the shirt still hides my arms whilst the mask hides my face, but even that's soon gone as he gently tilts my head forwards so he can unfasten the half mask and carefully set it down.
"You're beautiful," he lets go of my wrists so both sets of fingers can trace over my many scars. Behind me I can feel as his body shifts so his head can come down to be next to my head, so that his lips can caress the curves of my ear.
"I'm ugly."
"I think you're beautiful with your scars."

His hands are so warm; I don't know if it's because I'm cold or if I'm just so cold hearted.
"I don't care what you say; I think you are eternally beautiful." Hot kisses rain on the back of my bent neck as I hide my face against his chest; this time he doesn't comment, just letting me be. My fingers entwine into his loose shirt, my lips breathe hotly onto his chest as my cheeks begin to burn. His hands softly run down my now bare back, tracing the lashings that had long since been beaten into it. Despite the memories of these scars, the movement of his hands calm me, numbing me to my usual self-hatred.
"Caine," my voice melts even as his hands run over my thighs which straddle his lap.
"To me, you are so beautiful," he kindly whispers as his fingers continue on the broken journey they so often take.

No one has ever made me feel this way before; no one has ever touched me like this without further intent.
"So beautiful," he coos. Just him holding me makes me feel human rather than just another abused slave.

Description
Disgusting, marred, dirty, burnt, calloused, cold, broken, scarred.

I can't stand to look in the mirror; so many words I repeat when I see myself. How many masters is it I've had now? These last few haven't been too bad, but only because of this body. I might have grown plentifully well as a woman, but this bruised skin stops them in their tracks. I hate myself, I hate this body most of all, this body that has never really been my own, even now. Always I cover myself now to hide every painful reminder; I was too young to understand at the time but now I'm perfectly aware.

Arms wrap about me, enclosing my waist, a hand coming up to touch my bare left cheek.
"Didn't I tell you not to hide?"
"Please don't," I almost whimper, "At least not in front of the mirror."
"Why can't you see what I see? Why do you continue to hide?"
"Because I finally have a master who taught me what it is to have pride."

My current master is one of the commanders in the law enforcement sector. I work, indirectly, under him as a debt collector for the harbour guard. It's reasonable work, and there's a good pay, so I'm told, as a freed slave I'm just glad of any money coming my way. What I do know though is that the pay is good enough to pay rent on a small flat, it may be slightly shabby but it means I no longer have to live in my Master's house. The man currently behind me is a different matter; I met him because of my work, but not for any good reason.

Mafia of the Underworld, the illegal law enforcers. I got caught by his gang during one of my collections, bagged and gagged so to speak, that's how I met Wolfgang Zolf Caine.

His hand slips to the right side of my face, touching the vanity mask that he mocked when he first met me, the mask which covers the burn I had gained some years ago.
"You shouldn't hide."
"Please don't," I definitely whimper this time, my hands going up to try and stop his, but with just one he's already stopped me. With his spare hand he's untying my neck ribbon, carefully keeping hold of my wrists as he then somehow binds them. Already his hands have started on the buttons of my shirt. I hang my head, a blush spreading across my visible cheek, his hand beginning to work on my trousers. His fingers now move back up, brushing my shirt back onto my shoulders before they work on the bandages that bind my breasts; they're not there to support but to hide the further extent of my scars.

When Caine saw past the vanity mask and discovered the truth about me he promised me one thing; that despite how physically scarred I am, he told me that he would never emotionally scar me.. Fingers trace up my neck, crossing the old slave mark of Spade XIII, coming to rest on my jaw.
"Look," he pushes up my chin, forcing me to look in the mirror as my head comes to rest against his chest. So many scars rake my body, especially on my hips where previous masters had held me; my breasts don't fare much better. The one glimmer I can keep hold of is that the shirt still hides my arms whilst the mask hides my face, but even that's soon gone as he gently tilts my head forwards so he can unfasten the half mask and carefully set it down.
"You're beautiful," he lets go of my wrists so both sets of fingers can trace over my many scars. Behind me I can feel as his body shifts so his head can come down to be next to my head, so that his lips can caress the curves of my ear.
"I'm ugly."
"I think you're beautiful with your scars."

His hands are so warm; I don't know if it's because I'm cold or if I'm just so cold hearted.
"I don't care what you say; I think you are eternally beautiful." Hot kisses rain on the back of my bent neck as I hide my face against his chest; this time he doesn't comment, just letting me be. My fingers entwine into his loose shirt, my lips breathe hotly onto his chest as my cheeks begin to burn. His hands softly run down my now bare back, tracing the lashings that had long since been beaten into it. Despite the memories of these scars, the movement of his hands calm me, numbing me to my usual self-hatred.
"Caine," my voice melts even as his hands run over my thighs which straddle his lap.
"To me, you are so beautiful," he kindly whispers as his fingers continue on the broken journey they so often take.

No one has ever made me feel this way before; no one has ever touched me like this without further intent.
"So beautiful," he coos. Just him holding me makes me feel human rather than just another abused slave.